


Mail vs. Plate

by Ginipig



Series: Cullistair One-Shots [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxious Cullen, Couple arguing, Fluffy Ending, Grey Warden Alistair (Dragon Age), M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: Alistair returns late at night from a Warden mission a little worse for wear, and Cullen chooses the worst time to debate the merits of mail armor versus plate.
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford, cullistair - Relationship
Series: Cullistair One-Shots [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604995
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Mail vs. Plate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tollofthebells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/gifts).



> The idea for this one was inspired by the latest chapter of my good friend tollofthebells's _[A World Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16370282/chapters/47783035)_ , in which her Inquisitor Ellinor is injured after refusing to wear the armor (mail) that Cullen insisted on. He is concerned, she admits he was right but doesn't want him to be mad, he says he's not mad, just worried and upset she was hurt. While the scene was perfect for her Inquisitor and Cullen and also utterly adorable (the whole fic is, give it a read!), a part of me wanted him to be wrong and get called out on his overprotectiveness. So I thought about Cullen and Alistair, and this fic popped out. So thanks for the inspiration, my dear!

Cullen looked up when he heard one of the doors downstairs open and close again. Setting his book on the barrel next to his bed that served as a table, he stood just as a head poked into the loft.

Alistair, though clearly exhausted, grinned at him. “Hi.”

Cullen couldn’t help a giddy smile of his own; Alistair had been gone for three weeks. “Hi.”

The instant Alistair’s feet hit the floor of the loft, they were in each other’s arms, their lips pressed together in a kiss that set Cullen’s heart aflutter. It was a slow, languid thing, the kind of kiss that reminded Cullen of everything he’d missed — and everything he hadn’t realized he’d missed — while Alistair was gone. It tasted of mail and the road and something distinctly Alistair that Cullen would never in his life be able to describe to another soul, but which lit a fire in his chest that warmed the gaping cavern left after Alistair rode away.

Though Cullen hadn’t set a foot outside Skyhold’s walls, it tasted like coming home.

When they finally parted, Cullen rested his forehead against Alistair’s and breathed, “Maker, I missed you.”

Alistair huffed a soft laugh. “You stole my line.”

“Come to bed?”

“Let me get this armor off, then yes, please.”

Cullen climbed back into bed, and Alistair, sighing, collapsed in after him in record time.

“Come here.” Cullen took Alistair in his arms again and pulled him close to his chest.

Alistair stiffened with a hiss.

Cullen froze. “You’re injured.”

“’M fine,” Alistair mumbled, eyes closed.

“Alistair.” He sat up straight, tone aiming for Stern, but wavering disturbingly close to Anxious.

“It’s nothing.” Alistair hadn’t moved. “Just got lightly stabbed by an ogre.”

“Lightly — by an _ogre_?” Cullen’s tone definitely approached Scared now.

Alistair rubbed a hand down his face and explained like he did whenever a stranger asked him about fighting in the Blight — with no detail and reciting the words in a sort of rehearsed sing-song. “Yes, I was injured. Then I took a potion and was healed by one of our mages. It’s fine now but tender, and I’m going to see a healer tomorrow to check on it.”

“Maker’s breath, Alistair. Were you even wearing armor?”

“No, I regularly fight darkspawn naked,” Alistair snapped. “Of course I was wearing armor!”

Cullen waved in the direction of Alistair’s armor stand. “That Warden mail?”

Alistair shot to his feet straight from his prone position, seeming to completely skip the intermediate step of sitting up. “I am not having this ridiculous argument again.”

“If you’d been wearing plate —”

Alistair spun on his heel to face Cullen, clad in only in a long tunic. “Have you ever seen an ogre before? Do you have any idea how they attack, or even how big they are?”

Cullen hesitated for the barest moment. “I imagine they’re ten feet tall and —”

“Try twenty. They can and do pick people up with one hand to crush them or slam them into the ground or impale them with their foot-long claws. Do you know the key to defeating them?” Alistair barely let Cullen open his mouth to answer. “Agility. Slash and stab and wear them down while avoiding being crushed by boulders or getting snatched. They’re rare, but do you know how many I’ve killed?”

Once again, Alistair didn’t allow Cullen to respond.

“Several dozen. This was the first one since the Blight. None of my Wardens had ever seen one. A lot of them were wearing plate, and all of them were severely injured. The first time I fought one, I was wearing plate, and I almost died.”

Then Alistair’s shoulders slumped. He ran a hand through his hair. And when he met Cullen’s gaze again, his eyes glistened with tears.

“From what we could tell when we found him, Cailan was both crushed and impaled by an ogre, and he was wearing the best plate Ferelden could buy.” His voice warbled dangerously at the end but did not break. “Speed is important, and plate slows you down. The only person I’ve seen with the strength and agility to fight an ogre in plate and not be seriously injured was Ste — the Arish — a fucking _qunari_.”

They were both silent for several moments. Alistair was tired and upset, and Cullen didn’t want to fight.

But his worry and fear pushed the words out before he could stop them. “But you were wearing mail, and yet you were still injured.”

Alistair’s mouth thinned, and he threw up his hands. “Because I was —” He growled, gripping his head in both hands. “The bastard was reaching for Cooper, and I knew he wouldn’t be quick enough, so I shoved him out of the way. Neither of us got snatched, but I did get —”

“Lightly stabbed,” Cullen said through gritted teeth. “So you said.”

“It was a calculated risk,” Alistair snapped. “And I took it. A few puncture wounds for a person’s life is a good trade. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same. And,” he added, mouth a bitter smirk. “You know mail holds up better against sharp weapons. If I’d been wearing plate and had, by some miracle of Andraste, been quick enough, its claws might have gone all the way through.”

He glared at Cullen, waiting for a challenge that wouldn’t come. Cullen knew he was right, but that didn’t ease the tightness in his chest at the thought of Alistair prone and bleeding at the foot of an ogre.

Alistair ran his hands through his hair once again and sighed. “I’m not one of your recruits, Cullen. I’ve been fighting darkspawn for longer than you were a templar. Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing. If you can’t trust me …” He took a deep, shaky breath, and Cullen felt his heart begin to crack. “Maybe I should sleep somewhere else tonight.”

He bent down to grab his pants.

Cullen was on his feet in an instant. “I do trust you. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”

Alistair paused, upright and holding his pants, expression uncertain and — Cullen hated himself for causing it — hurt.

Cullen crossed the room in barely a stride, cupping Alistair’s face with one hand while grabbing Alistair’s pants and dropping them to the floor with the other.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his own voice trembling. “I know that you know what you’re doing. I’m just — I worry every time you leave, and hearing you were injured when I wasn’t there —”

His voice finally broke under the strain, so he did the only thing he could — wrapped his arms (gently) around Alistair and held him close.

“I don’t care that you worry,” Alistair murmured into his shoulder. “I worry about you, too. But don’t treat me like I just picked up a sword yesterday. And for fuck’s sake —” Cullen chuckled in spite of himself — “let the plate armor thing go. I’m not going to wear it, and you constantly bringing it up is just going to make me more insistent on mail.”

Cullen wrapped his arms tighter and snorted. “I know. I’m sorry.”

They stood there for a while, holding each other, until finally Cullen’s whirlwind of emotions settled into a gentle breeze.

“Come to bed?” he asked once again.

“Unless you want me to fall asleep right here,” Alistair mumbled. “Which I could do.”

Cullen pulled away, softly kissed Alistair’s forehead, and led him to their bed.

He lay down, and as Alistair did the same, he whispered, “May I see it, at least?”

On his side and facing away from him, Alistair sighed, but Cullen could tell it at least somewhat fondly frustrated. “If it will shut you up, fine.”

Cullen lifted the bottom of Alistair’s shirt, nervous about what he would see, and found …

Nothing.

Well, not nothing, he realized upon further inspection, but three red marks so small that he couldn’t find them for several seconds.

He ran his fingers over them and let out a sigh of relief, and with it the remainder of his worries.

“Told you,” Alistair murmured, sounding half-asleep already. “Probably won’t even scar.”

“You’ll see a healer tomorrow?”

“Was planning on it.”

Cullen guided Alistair’s shirt back down and pulled him against his chest.

“Mmm,” Alistair sighed.

Cullen kissed the back of his head and neck. “I’m sorry. I promise to treat you like the experienced and heroic Warden you are.”

Alistair let out a soft groan, and that was how Cullen knew he was forgiven. They both hated being called heroes, and so they both gently teased each other with the term, which drew groans from them both.

“Just …” Cullen placed a kiss at the point where Alistair’s neck met his shoulder. “Please try to be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

“‘M always careful.” Alistair’s words slurred with sleep. “‘N’ stop being a sanctimonious jerk.”

“I promise.” Cullen smiled into Alistair’s hair. “I love you.”

“Uvoo, too.”

“Now get some rest. I’ll keep you safe while you sleep.”

“Mmm,” was the last thing Alistair said before he began to snore softly.

Cullen tightened his arms, pulling Alistair as close as he dared without irritating what remained of his injury, and with a deep sigh he allowed the smell of home to carry him into the Fade.


End file.
